I am kind of a chicken.
Not totally, but, you know, kind of.
I had thought I had reached a fairly safe spot in my maturity where I was content and confident in my abilities.
Well . . .
Apparently not so much.
I had been talking to someone I knew from Narnia. No, wait–high school. We were catching up on our lives and I mentioned I’d been to a writing conference.
“What do you write?”
I told him I was writing a book.
“What’s it about?”
I explained I was writing a Regency.
After a few sentences, which included “Jane Austen” and “some of those historical chick flicks,” he said, “That’s great! I think it’s nice when older people go after their dreams.”
Wait. Did he just call me old?
Before I could remind him we were practically the same age, he said, “Can I hear some of it? Read me an excerpt.”
Gulp. An excerpt.
Remembering my own assertion–I am a writer–my brain scrambled to figure out what part I should read. I made small talk while my mind raced. Also, I was having a difficult time locating my manuscript, or even my notebook.
I was flustered.
And completely caught off guard.
While many people had read my writing, no one had asked me to read my writing, other than at a specific critique group with other writers. And over the phone–!
(Now is probably a good time to mention that I only talk on the phone when I have to. Otherwise, I dislike it with a potent and bitter loathing. I’m awkward enough in person; over the phone the awkwardness reaches new heights.)
I fumbled over my words, apologizing, still not finding my MS anywhere.
Luckily, my friend is a good-phone talker and he basically said, “That’s cool,” without drawing attention to my ineptitude on the telephone.
In an attempt to be bold and make up for my earlier chicken-heartedness, I am now going to post an excerpt here. “He [or she] who hesitates is lost!” (Props to Mr. Snicket.)
This is the second scene, where we are introduced to the hero of the tale.
Sidney Thomas Francis Carmichael, Duke of Ottley, Marquess of Shelbourne, Earl of Loxley, stared across his desk at his solicitor Frederick Feld of Banks and Feld, Esq. “There’s an estate in Scotland? Why is this only coming up now?”
Feld cleared his throat delicately. “Some papers appear to have been misplaced, Your Grace.”
“Misplaced?” The young duke’s brow furrowed as he thought of the ramifications of that piece of information. He let out a frustrated sigh and raked his fingers through his hair. “Blast.” He thumbed through the pages of the appointment book sitting atop his desk’s blotter. Most, if not all, of the pages had things written on them. “That means I have to make a trip to Scotland.”
Feld considered a moment, then ventured, “You could send someone else to check out the property, Your Grace.”
Sidney shut the appointment book with a click. “For whatever reason, Sir Howard appointed me as trustee.” His voice was quiet, clipped. “Although it isn’t particularly convenient for me to take a trip to Scotland just now,” he cast a baleful glare at his appointment book, “I will fulfill my duty.” Sidney let out a pent up breath. “It will just have to wait a couple of months.”
“Your Grace, someone with your responsibilities cannot expect to do everything personally.”
“Thank you, Feld,” the duke said with a smirk. “I’ve found that lots fewer papers get ‘misplaced’ when I attend to things myself.”
Feld turned an unbecoming shade of red, but before he could stammer an apology Sidney held up a hand to stop him. “You’ll have to forgive me, Feld. It had already been a long day before you decided to lay a mysterious estate in Scotland in my lap.”
Sidney stood and Feld followed his lead. “Come talk with me tomorrow,” Sidney said, his words a dismissal.
After Feld left, Sidney walked over to the window and looked down at the street below, leaning against the sill. The manicured shrubs and the fine carriages passing didn’t register in his mind. If he was honest with himself, the Scotland estate didn’t weigh so heavily, either.
The weight he felt was the weight of the dukedom, the weight his mother had piled on him earlier during tea, the weight of duty.
“You are now a score and ten,” she had pointed out unnecessarily. “You must find a wife.”